Of Losing, Finding And Keeping Friends Alive
by toeki
Summary: It is not easy to keep your friends alive during the war in Afghanistan. It is even more complicated to do so in London, especially when your friend is Sherlock Holmes. Story consisting of 6 221bs, 3 for Afghanistan and 3 for London.
1. Helmand, Afghanistan

John Watson is standing on top of a flat, square concrete building, between antennas and satellite dishes. The army doctor looks down onto the organized chaos of the camp, walls and corridors made of sand bags, canvas roofs and separated canvas sections that give only the faint illusion of privacy. The noises of the camp reach even here, the building barely higher than the rest. The temperature has dropped about ten degrees compared to daytime, but it is still uncomfortably hot. The concrete makes it worse, having absorbed the heat of the day and emitting it slowly now.

Watson hears the sound of army boots on concrete and grumbles in disapproval. He often comes here, seeking solitude and a little privacy, distance from the busy human anthill that is the camp.

John looks over his shoulder at the very young soldier in crinkled camouflage trousers and shirt who disturbs his solitary resting place. The other man stops and nods a silent greeting, before moving on and unfurling a sleeping bag as far away from Watson as possible. John continues his staring. After some minutes of mutual silence, he finally shrugs. The two men on the roof , very aware of each other, silently agree to ignore the fact that the place they thought was theirs alone is occupied by another human being.

oOo

After some nights of ignorance, the younger man walks over to Watson, silently offering a bottle and cigarettes. John shakes his head at the cigarettes but reaches for the bottle with a smile, while the youngster sits down next to him with his cigarette.

Watson breaks the silence asking for his companion´s name, and when the bottle is empty, they almost act like old friends. Many nights later John is still wondering how easy it is to form a friendship over a bottle of vodka.

John sits at the edge of the roof, hearing the familiar tap of boots on concrete.

"Hy Mattie," John nods, lifting the bottle with a warm smile. It is his turn to bring the alcohol today.

"Evening, doc," the soldier grins. "You still think that cigarettes are more lethal than war?"

"They are bad for your health," John replies with mock earnestness.

Mattie´s grin becomes broader."If I´d care for my health, I shouldn´t take part in a war, don´t you think?"

"They shouldn´t allow _idiots_ into the army", John answers, frowning.

Mattie just laughs. "You say that war is dangerous, but you´re still here."

Watson´s frown turns into a smile and they laugh like this is a real good joke, agreeing that they both are crazy bastards.

oOo

The meetings on the roof become more and more regular. John admits to himself that he is disappointed when Mattie doesn´t show up. He discovers that his friend has an affinity for astronomy. So John spends a lot of nights looking at the clear night sky while Mattie gestures at the stars, cigarette between his fingers, telling him about the constellations. John uses to lie down on the flat roof, hands folded beneath his head, feeling the warmth of the concrete through his clothes, at peace with himself.

Peace is a fragile and temporary thing in Helmand. It shatters along with the first attack after weeks of silence.

A bomb, exploded next to one of their patrol jeeps. Watson is trained for situations like this. He does his job calmly and efficiently, though it turns out to be mere aftersearch instead of a rescuing mission. There are no injured people to take care of, no survivors. The car is an unrecognizable heap of metal, and John is crouching on the ground, putting pieces of charred flesh and shattered bone into black body bags. The dog tags will be the only way of identifying the victims. His hands start shaking when he realizes that the dog tag he is holding reads "Matthew Thompson" and belongs to one of the unrecognizable bodies.


	2. London, England

When Watson returns to London, every friend he ever made is dead.

John feels lost, like some part of him never left Afghanistan, like some part of him has died there, too.

Watson is not accustomed to civil life. It takes more than sharing a drink to make friends here.

John meets Sherlock. The man is fascinating. A strange combination of chaos, social incompetence, energy and intelligence.

Not able to live a normal life; just like John.

It is not easy to be Sherlock´s friend. To get beneath his icy facade, to put up with his habit of treating everyone including John like idiots. It is not easy to stand those blue eyes piercing through him, reading every move, every thought. Sherlock uses his eyes with merciless precision, like he uses the scalpel when examining a dead body, cutting through the layers to the very core of the problem.

Though he is dissecting John with his eyes on a daily basis, he never finds something that makes him reject the doctor.

Sometimes, John sees emotions flicker across Sherlock´s pale features. Something like concern, like fondness; the faint trace of a genuine smile. John values those rare displays of emotion. His therapist wouldn´t approve, but John feels oddly comfortable with this friendship they have formed over a dead body.

oOo

Sherlock is not good at deducing feelings, but he soon connects the grim expression on John´s face with Afghanistan . It always shows at uncomfortably hot summer days, and Sherlock is careful not to leave John alone when he looks like this. The rising possibility of self-harm, even suicide during episodes of depression is stored clearly in Sherlock´s mind. Though he is usually able to deduce everything relevant by looking at a person for five minutes, he is still not sure about John´s state of mind after five months of living with him.

So Sherlock ends up standing on top of a flat concrete building, watching John dropping the bottle of vodka he has emptied alone because the man he used to share one with has been dead for years. Sherlock doesn´t understand why this still affects John after such a long time. He understands even less why John watches the stars with unfocused eyes, trying to repeat the words of a dead man for Sherlock with an unsteady voice.

Sherlock doesn´t understand, but he _cares._ That´s why he pretends to listen, though he knows he will delete it as irrelevant later. But he never deletes the single tear running down John´s cheek or the feeling of John leaning into him while Sherlock awkwardly pats his back.

oOo

John stands beside the pool, repeating the words Moriarty dictates into his earpiece. He sees surprise, hurt, betrayal run over Sherlock´s features before the consulting detective forces his face back to neutral. He sees relief when Sherlock finally comprehends what is going on.

He grabs Moriarty, telling Sherlock to run. But Sherlock decides to use this critical moment to contradict his usual pattern of cold and rational behavior, to value friendship over logic, to stay.

When Moriarty retreats, Sherlock doesn´t follow him, rushing into John´s direction instead. Sherlock´s hands shake when he kneels down in front of him, untying the Semtex vest and throwing it as far way as possible. John´s knees give away. He is breathing rapidly, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock, who has become his lifeline. The lifeline Moriarty wants to cut when he returns.

Strangely, even with the scent of chlorine and the reflection of the water tinging the place pale blue, it is Afghanistan that John remembers. Afghanistan, where all his friends have died. John´s eyes meet Sherlock's, and he nods slightly when Sherlock raises the gun.

This time John doesn´t want to be the one who´s left, the survivor living a borrowed life. He leaps, tackling Sherlock into the pool, shielding his friend from the impact when the bullet hits the bomb.


End file.
